The dense sun-drenched savannah gave way to a suffocating quiet.
Leonotis, Low, Jacqueline, and Zombiel pushed through a final curtain of thorny acacia, emerging into a clearing so still it felt like a painting. Towering Baobab trees stood guard, their branches creating a thick canopy.
The air was heavy and still, trapping a smell that clung to the back of their throats. It was a perfume of paradox: the scent of a thousand wilting blossoms mixed with the decaying odor of a forgotten feast.
Low gripped the leather strap of her satchel. "Something's not right," she whispered, her voice a low growl. The werebear's instincts in her were screaming, but she couldn't pinpoint the source of the dread. It wasn't the presence of a beast, but the utter absence of anything alive.
Leonotis walked over to a nearby shrub, touching its leaves with the tip of his root-sword. He frowned, his brow furrowed in concentration. "The plants… they're weird," he murmured. "They're alive, but it's like they're not breathing."
Jacqueline looked up, eyes scanning the still canopy. "It's as if the village itself is holding its breath," she said, wrapping her arms around herself.
Zombiel simply stared. He could feel the canopy's silence more acutely than the others. "It's the same quiet as a grave," he said.
They stepped out from the cover of the canopy. A village lay before them, a ghost in the heart of the savannah.
"Let's see if we can find anyone," Leonotis said, feeling something pulling him to investigate the village.
The path ahead twisted and turned through the quiet, overgrown village. Sun-baked huts, their clay walls crumbling and their thatched roofs caved in, stood like silent witnesses to some long-ago tragedy. Each step felt heavy, muted by the thick layer of dust that coated the ground.
They emerged into a wide, central square where the light, for the first time, streamed through a perfect break in the canopy above. The beam of sunlight landed directly on a single, impossible object in the center of the plaza.
It was a coffin, but not one meant for burial. This was a work of art, a masterpiece of ebony and myth. It was massive, easily the length of a small carriage, and intricately carved from a single, seamless block of dark wood.
Every inch of its surface was a tapestry of myth, figures of gods and heroes woven into scenes of creation and destruction. Sacred runes, etched in a strange, shimmering gold, swirled across the surface and pulsed with a faint, hypnotic light. Inlaid gems, sapphires the color of a clear lake, rubies that burned like embers, and emeralds that gleamed like fresh leaves. The gems were placed so precisely they seemed to hum with a life of their own.
A dread radiated from the coffin, a deep ancient wrongness. It seeped into their bones, a primal fear that made the hairs on the back of their necks stand up.
Low's gaze locked on the coffin. She could feel the power radiating from it. But beneath it, she could taste the poison. The coffin wasn't offering peace. It was offering something far worse.
Every instinct in her screamed to flee, to destroy the coffin, but another part of her was trying to hold her back. She could feel her pulse quicken. Her gaze darted around the square, searching for an outlet for the rage that burned within her. But the coffin… it was a lie, and she wanted to tear it to pieces.
Surrounding the coffin stood a dozen statues, carved from what looked like a dark, volcanic rock. They were fearsome creatures from the old stories: a muscled Adze with bat wings and a razor-sharp maw; a massive, coiled Mokele-Mbembe, its head raised as if to roar; and the small, grinning bodies of terrifying Chaneques.
Zombiel shuffled forward, drawn to the object. He could feel the stillness in the air, but he felt a strange kinship with the stillness. "It's sleeping, but it's not at rest," he said.
Leonotis gripped the hilt of his root-sword. His plant magic felt thin and weak here. He could feel the cold, dead energy radiating from the coffin. This coffin was a lure, a gilded cage for a soul, and was nothing but a veil for something that was profoundly and utterly dead.
Zombiel, however, remained captivated. "So… pretty," he whispered. He reached out a hesitant hand toward the shimmering runes, but Jacqueline grabbed his arm.
"Don't touch it!" Jacqueline hissed. "I can feel the magic in it. It's like a whirlpool. It pulls you in, but there's no way out."
The air around them seemed to pulse, the silence pressing on their minds. Every step closer felt heavier, as if the ground itself were resisting their approach.
Leonotis took a deep breath, trying to anchor himself. The coffin was more than an object—it was a presence, a living thing of sorrow and ambition.
Low's hands twitched, claws flexing against the urge to strike. Zombiel's gaze lingered on the pulsing runes, mesmerized. Jacqueline's heart raced, the water magic around her humming in anxious anticipation.
This was only the beginning. The coffin's power called to them, and the village waited in silence, holding its breath.